


Every Dirty Detail

by a_splash_of_stucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Actor Bucky Barnes, Alcohol, Best Friend Natasha, Blowjobs, Dick Chat, Excessive Swearing, F/M, Good Sex, Identity Reveal, Mentions of a sugar daddy relationship, Mind-blowing sex, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, One Night Stands, Protective Natasha Romanov, Sexual Content, girl talk, mention of sexual harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 14:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/pseuds/a_splash_of_stucky
Summary: Your best friend wants to hear all about your wild night out.





	Every Dirty Detail

**Author's Note:**

> WOOO!! Look at me, back from the dead, breaking my writing dry spell!
> 
> Wham bam slam fam (ew, cringe, why do I do this to myself?): my first ever Nat-centric fic. It’s smut, but it’s more like…heavily referenced smut, not actual smut. Y’all, I had so much fun writing this, I was cracking myself up along the way. I wish I had a friendship like this :’)

It’s just after 8AM when you stumble up to the front door of your stuffy little apartment. You’ve got some big-ass blisters on the soles of your feet thanks to those stupid heels you decided to wear last night, hair that looks more like a bird’s nest than actual hair and let’s not even  _start_ on your clothes. You’re in desperate need of some mouthwash, a shower, a nap and some aspirin — not necessarily in that order.

Suffice it to say: you’re really glad to be home.

You lean against the wall to balance yourself as you root around in your purse for your keys, humming in triumph when you locate them amongst the pile of shit that permanently resides in the bottom of your bag. You’re mildly hungover and severely sleep-deprived, meaning that it takes a bit of blindly jabbing at the lock with your key before it finally slides into place. You shrug off your coat as you step inside, then nudge the door shut with your foot as you hang your coat in the closet by the door. You kick off your shoes — or, the Heels from Hell, as you’ve decided to christen them — and pad barefoot towards your room, ready to fall face-first onto your bed.

“So nice of you to show up,” chirps a cheerful voice.

“Holy motherfucker on a stick!” you scream, jumping about three feet in the air in surprise. You whirl around, searching for the source of that voice — immediately regretting those tequila shots last night when a wave of dizziness slams into you. Natasha is curled up on the sofa, laptop perched on her lap, a steaming cup of tea in her right hand.

“Hello,” she greets, not bothering to conceal the amusement in her voice.

“Shitting hell, Nat,” you mutter, one hand pressed over your heart, as if to prevent it from beating out of your chest. “You scared me!”

“Evidently,” Nat agrees, tipping her head in acknowledgement. You watch as she takes a sip of her tea before putting the mug down on the coffee table. She closes her laptop and sets it beside her tea, before pushing herself off the sofa and walking slowly towards you. Despite the early hour, Natasha is already dressed for the day, wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and a denim shirt, the first three buttons undone to reveal the olive green cami she has on underneath. Her scarlet red hair has been pulled back into a tastefully messy bun.

“Nat,” you say cautiously, as she approaches you.

Your best friend folds her arms over her chest as she comes to a stop two feet away from you. A demure smile is playing on her lips, a knowing gleam shines in her eyes — you know that look.

You don’t like that look. It usually spells trouble.

 **“Well?”** Nat asks, **“What happened? I want all the details!”**

“Details?” you echo, trying valiantly to keep any emotions from bleeding into your voice. “No idea what you’re talking about—,”

“Don’t bullshit me, Y/N,” she interrupts, “I can smell the sex on you from all the way over here.”

That gives you pause. “Is it really that bad?” you sigh, dragging your hand down your face. When you glance down at it, there’s a smear of black on the side of your thumb. Great. You probably look like a racoon that’s been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, at this point.

“No,” Nat concedes, shrugging one shoulder, “But it did get you to admit that you got laid.”

“Naaaaat,” you whine, pouting your lips petulantly.

“So, did you?” she sing-songs, waggling her eyebrows playfully.

With a long-suffering eye-roll, you exhale slowly through your mouth. “Hun,” you drawl, “It was the lay of my  _life_.”

—————————————

Despite her insistent pleas, you manage to convince Nat to give you ten minutes to freshen up. You hop into the shower to scrub away the makeup remnants still clinging to your face, before lathering up your loofah to wash away the smell of sweat, sex and booze lingering on your skin. Once you’ve brushed your teeth and slipped into a pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt, you dry

your hair as best as you can with your towel. Now that you’re feeling more like yourself, you decide that it’s safe enough to venture back out into the living room, to face your best friend.

Nat, bless her condemned soul, has made you a plate of scrambled eggs to quieten down the relentless pounding inside your skull. She swears by her eggs — you’ve no idea what she puts in them, but they are the best hangover cure you’ve ever come across.

Knowing her, she probably spikes them with vodka, or something, but hey — it works, so who are you to complain?

The eggs are waiting for you on the coffee table, a tall glass of water and a couple of aspirins on the side. You swallow the pills first, before picking up the plate and sitting down beside Nat. Wordlessly, she twists around so that her back is leaning against the arm of the sofa, enabling her to drape her legs over your thighs. You huff good-naturedly, patiently waiting for her to make herself comfortable, before using her knees as a makeshift table.

“So?” Nat prompts.

“Calm your tits, woman,” you snap, your words coming out less heated than you’d like them to, thanks to the forkful of eggs in your mouth. “Lemme get some food in my system, yeah?”

Nat gives an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, although her voice tells you that she’s anything but. “It’s not every day that my best friend gets laid, y’know?”

You snort. “You make it sound like this is a once-in-a-century kinda thing,” you grumble, shovelling another scoop of eggs into your mouth. You hadn’t realised it before but you are  _ravenous_.

“That’s because it  _is_ a once-in-a-century kinda thing, babe,” she deadpans.

You faux-gasp, playing up your insulted expression. “Fuckety  _bye_ , bitch,” you say playfully, moving to shove her legs off you so that you can stand up. Natasha laughs, catching your arm and squeezing it affectionately.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she chortles, “It’s just…kinda a big deal, y’know?”

“ _Ugh_ , why am I friends with you?” you mutter darkly, quickly polishing off the last of your breakfast, before setting the plate back down on the table.

“Because without me, you’d probably cart off to the Himalayan mountains, or something, and live like a hermit for the rest of your life,” Nat points out sagely.

“Bish, if I’m gonna live like a hermit, I’m at least gonna be a hermit that lives on the beach, or somewhere equally warm,” you protest.

Nat smacks the back of your hand against your upper arm, a hit that’s just this side of being painful. “Come  _on_ , Y/N, stop deflecting already!” she demands.

You narrow your eyes and shoot her a murderous glance as you rub your fingers over the sore spot. “C’mon now, be nice, you fuckface,” you say in the most condescending voice you can muster up.

“I  _would_  be nice if you got on with the fucking story, douchecanoe,” Nat retorts mockingly.

“Fine, fine,” you sigh, leaning back into the cushions and twisting onto your side, a little, so that you can look at her without having to crane your neck. “Where d’you want me to start?”

Natasha cocks her head to the side and considers your question, top teeth catching onto her plush bottom lip as she mulls it over. “Well,” she says slowly, “You went to the bar and didn’t come back. Then, twenty minutes later, I get a text saying that you’re going home with some guy and that I shouldn’t wait up. I think that’s a good place to start.”

“Ah yes,” you hum, smiling dreamily at the memory, “The bar scene.”

“What happened?” she presses.

“Patience, fuckwit,” you say sharply, podding her calf for emphasis. “So, yes, I went to the bar to get a drink, but it was kinda crowded and the bartender was on the other end, so I stood there for a bit to wait,” you start. “Then, this guy comes up beside me and puts his arm on the small of my back, like  _right_ above my ass—,”

“You went home with him?” Nat squawks, bolting upright all of a sudden, an indignant look wron her face. Her protective big sister act is truly endearing, sometimes.

You sigh. “Of course not, you fuckwit, I’ve got standards, y’know?”

“Right, right, sorry, continue,” she says, the tension immediately flowing out of her system as she settles back down.

“Yeah, so, um—dude comes up to me, gets real close, and he  _reeks_ , like—not just of alcohol, but he smells like he hasn’t had a shower in a week and decided to roll around in a dumpster to amplify the fact,” you say, nose wrinkling in disgust as you recall the god-awful stench.

“Classy,” Nat comments.

“The classiest of trash,” you remark dryly. “So then he starts gettin’ real friendly, goes on with the usual spiel of ‘oh baby, what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ here all on her own’ and all that bullshit,” you continue, mimicking the deep, drunken drawl of the stranger, “And I’m like, ‘hands off, dude, I’m lookin’ for a good time and you ain’t it,’.”

Nat barks out a laugh. “That’s my girl.”

“Yeah, except he wasn’t having that, obviously, so he got pushier, and the bar was pretty crowded, so it’s not like I could escape. I was about to call the bartender for assistance, when someone else intervened and basically told the arsewipe to clear the hell off — in more or less those words, I might add.”

“Nice.”

You hum in agreement. “So with the arsewipe gone, I turn around to say thanks and —  _god_ ,” you sigh breathily, lips quirking up into a smile. “There, in front of my eyes, is the most beautiful man on the face of this Earth, I swear to the fucking heavens.”

“Wow,” Nat murmurs.

“Kinda dark hair, pulled back into a bun, black leather jacket,  _killer_ blue eyes, a smile that makes you wanna drop your panties there and then—,”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N!”

“M’serious!” you protest, “If you saw him, you’d feel the same. Anyway, once I’ve gotten over the initial shock, I say thanks, he says no problem, then asks if he can buy me a drink. I say yes, of course—,”

“Smart.”

“—and then he introduces himself as James. I introduce myself, we do a couple’a rounds of shots, and then he asks if I want to dance—,”

“Oh snap.”

“—and I’m like ‘yeah, sure’.” You pause for breath, casting a sideways glance at Natasha. You can tell by the shine in her eyes that she’s fully engrossed in the story, revelling in the experience of living vicariously through you, for once, as opposed to the reverse being true.

“So we dance, and, well,” you break off, giggling nervously, “It’s less dancing and more just—um, really intense grinding. I mean, it started off innocently enough, but I kinda—someone bumped into me from behind and James caught me, and then,  _fuck_  this sounds so chick-flick cliche, but he kissed me, then.”

“Okay, now comes the good shit,” Nat says.

You snort. “Yeah, so we kissed, and then danced some more, and his hands were just—all over, and, um. Then he asked if I wanted to go back to his place and I said fuck yes, obviously.”

“Woo! Look at you, letting your hair down, for once,” Nat crows, grinning happily.

“Very funny,” you say, although the smile on your lips makes it hard for you to sound sarcastic. “So we head to coat-check to grab our things, I fire you off that text, and then he calls his  _driver_  to take us back to his place.”

“Rich dude, then?” Nat guesses.

“Well, yeah, I guess, if his cologne was anything to go by,” you say.

“He smelt that good?” she asks, clearly amused by your comment.

“Alllll over, honey,” you reply, batting your eyelashes flirtatiously, the meaning behind your words so obvious that even an ignorant idiot would catch your drift.

Natasha scoffs, shoving at your shoulder, “Jeez, Y/N, are you still drunk, or something?”

“Mmm, no, just high on endorphins, probably.”

She snorts, shaking her head in a way that says  _I can’t believe this bitch_. “Did you make out in the car?” she asks.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You’ve been good at keeping your cool all this while, but the way she asked the question so offhandedly makes you squirm.

It’s strange, though; you and Nat share every intimate detail of your personal lives with each other, so you’ve got no idea why you feel so weirded out. But, then again, you’re normally on the listening end of this situation, rather than the recounting end. Yeah, that’s probably why you’re feeling uncomfortable. Besides, Natasha has a certain brand of self-assuredness that you have yet to acquire — sometimes, you envy her for that.

You take a deep, steadying breath to tamp down your sudden-onset discomfort, shoving the nerves aside and clearing your throat before continuing with your story.

“Yeah,” you admit, in answer to her question tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “We—it was kinda tame, just a lot of kissing. James kept his hands on, like, my thighs, and my waist and my arms and stuff — didn’t touch any of the…” your voice trails off as you gesture vaguely over your chest.

Natasha smirks. “What a gentleman.”

You laugh. “Yeah, well. Anyway, we get to his place and my  _god_ , Nat.”

“What?” she asks, evidently curious.

“Like, his  _place_ ,” you say, words suddenly failing you as you falter helplessly. “Like — his place had a fucking  _doorman_ , in a motherfucking  _top hat_. And it was all, like, glass and marble and chandeliers and shit. He brought me to the lift, swiped a card and pressed the button for the goddamn  _penthouse,_ Nat, his actual, legitimate  _penthouse_.”

“Shit,” Nat breathes, eyes wide in wonderment. “For real?”

“Hell yeah,” you reply, nodding your head vigorously. “Like, his place had an  _upstairs —_ who the fuck has stairs in their apartment, anyway?”

“Holy motherfucker of all shit,” she swears, voice awed. “Y/N, you done  _good_ , honey.”

“Wait, I haven’t even gotten to the sex part, yet,” you say, flapping your hand at her impatiently. “Anyway, yes. So. I’m gaping like a dork at his place, like, at all the fancy furniture and the original artwork on the wall, and the leather sofa and shit, and he all of a sudden presses me up against the wall and  _kisses_ me. Like, properly.”

“Tongue and all?”

“Bish, he  _knew_ what a tongue was and more importantly, how to use it,” you say, goosebumps breaking out over your skin as you recall the feel of James’ stubble against your cheek, the pillowy-softness of his lips as they covered yours. White-hot lust flares low in your belly as the sounds of his heated moans echo in your memory, accompanied by the ghost sensation of his jean-clad cock grinding against you.

“Helllooooo?” Nat says, poking you in the shoulder, “Earth to Y/N? You haven’t finished the story!”

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, before casting Nat a nervous smile. “Right. Um. Yeah, kisses, and like — he’s hard, obviously. So he grabs my hand and drags me upstairs to his bedroom and  _wow_ —,”

“Nice place?”

“Nice doesn’t even cover it,” you say, counting off the marvels in James’ bedroom with your fingers as you list them out.  “We’re talking, king-sized bed, silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows, en-suite with a goddamn bathtub—,”

“You lucky shit,” she mutters, folding her arms over her chest in disbelief.

You nod in agreement as you plough on with your tale. “So, my dress comes off—,”

“Aren’t you glad I made you wear your one matching set?” Nat interjects.

You groan, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “Yes, okay, thank you,” you mumble.

“Continue,” Nat says. Your eyes don’t need to be open for you to know that there’s a sly smile toying on her lips.

“Yeah, um. James goes wild, for the skin. Like, marking me up and whatnot,” you say, pulling your hands away and letting them rest on top of her legs.

“You got any left? The marks?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

With a grin, you tip your head back and pull down the neckline of your shirt, exposing the trail of lovebites adorning your collarbone. Nat gives a low whistle. “Shit-kebabs, Y/N,” she says approvingly, “He had a mouth like a hoover, or what?”

You chuckle. “Yeah, pretty much,” you admit, shrugging nonchalantly as you pull your shirt back into place. “So, I’m practically naked, he pushes me onto the bed, then gets his shirt off and—,” you cut yourself off for heightened dramatic effect, one hand flying out to clutch Nat’s arm in a vice-like grip.

“What?”

“Natasha,” you say seriously, “The dude was built like a goddamn shithouse on steroids.”

“You kid me.”

“I kid you not,” you reply, turning to look at her properly. “Pecs of steel. Abs for days. Biceps that will fuel my masturbatory fantasies for  _years_.”

“Holy shite,” Nat says emphatically.

“Yeah, I know, but not too much, ya’ feel?” you continue, letting go of her arm and leaning back into the cushions. “Like, he was built, but not bulky. Anyway, there I was, practically drooling at this meatfeast on legs and he gets on top of me. We go back to doing more kissing, except this time, it’s much harder to ignore the fucking iron pole poking me in the thigh.”

Your voice trails off again as you remember the hot, heavy weight of James’ body over yours, how safe and small you’d felt being caged in by his arms. His skin had been searing hot to the touch, a perfect match to the sinful heat of his mouth. Fuck that,  _everything_ about the situation was hot; you could’ve sworn that the temperature of the room was as at least a thousand degrees. James’ breath was warm as it fanned over your slick skin. His low and gravelly voice in your ear stoked the smouldering fire burning in your core.

“Right, um, yeah,” you murmur weakly, valiantly yanking your mind out of the memory as you try to get your brain back on track. “Uhh, yeah. So then, I said that I wanted to get his pants off, so he knelt up and I scooted up, so that I could undo his jeans.”

“Was he big?” Nat asks, completely serious.

“Natasha Romanoff!” you squawk indignantly, throwing her an affronted look.

“What?” she protests, holding both hands up in surrender. “It’s for scientific research purposes!”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, no, I’m serious,” she continues, “Like, you know what they say — the richest guys have the tiniest dicks.”

You narrow your eyes, doubtful of her claim. “Who the fuck says that?”

“Twatface, stop avoiding the question.”

You sigh, scrubbing the back of your hand over your eyes. “Yeah, well. Clearly, he’s an anomaly. A very big exception to the rule,” you say, unable to hide the self-satisfied smirk in your voice.

“How big was he?” she asks again, voice a borderline whine.

“Why do you want to know?” you press.

“Because I’m nosy as fuck,” she says immediately. “Also, more importantly, I need to know if you’ve like…been permanently damaged down there, or something. As your best friend, y’know,” she adds, winking salaciously.

“Ew, gross, Nat,” you mutter, shaking your head. She arches an eyebrow and gives you a look that tells you that she’s not going to drop the subject anytime soon. You sigh, lifting your right arm up and pressing the index and middle fingers of your left hand to your right wrist. You keep your eyes trained on her face as you draw your fingers from your wrist to just below the crook of your elbow.

Nat’s eyes go comically wide, eyebrows flying up so high, they almost disappear into her hair. “Har har, Y/N, very funny. You  _are_ aware that only pornstars have cocks that massive, right?”

“And that’s exactly what I said to James,” you say solemnly. “Well, actually, I’m pretty sure I  _shouted_  something along the lines of ‘holy shit, how the fuck do you keep that thing inside your pants all the time?’”

“And he laughed?”

“He did,” you confirm. “James is a nice guy. Good sense of humour.”

“And a monster dick, apparently,” Nat mutters.

You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “Yeah, so, um. What more is there to say, uh—,”

“Did you get your mouth on that thing?” she asks.

Another wave of heat rushes through your cheeks. “Um, yeah,” you admit timidly. “It was, uhh, a struggle, as you can imagine. I damn near thought I was gonna dislocate my jaw, at one point, but he was nice about it, didn’t try to fuck my face with that thing, or whatever. Just kinda…let me…um, I guess, play with it…” you say, your pitch rising up at the end of the sentence, making it sound like a question without you meaning to. “Fuck, this is so cringe!” you whine, covering your face with both hands.

Natasha laughs good-naturedly, rubbing her hand over your thigh. “Well, at least he wasn’t a jerk about it,” she says consolingly. “Did he return the favour?”

You nod, not trusting your voice just yet, as your mind is still very much stuck on the memory of James’ dick inside your mouth. His had been the biggest cock you’d ever come up-close-and-personal with, by a long shot. But, at the same time, James was also the sweetest guy you’ve ever been with, hands down.

The two make for one hell of a fun combination.

You’ve never been particularly fond of sucking dick before, but with James — bloody hell, with him, you would have happily suckled on his cock for  _ages_ , if it were possible. His taste was musky and salty, without being overly bitter or repulsive. You’d particularly enjoyed tracing the prominent veins on his shaft with the tip of your tongue, watching the way his taut belly shuddered under your ministrations. Your favourite part about the whole experience, though, were the broken moans and choked off whimpers that fell from his mouth.

 _God_  he was so hot.

“He returned the favour, and…” Nat prompts, pinching you sharply on the thigh to snap you back to the present.

You yowl in pain, rubbing the spot indignantly as you curse her under your breath. “Yeah, um. He got my bra and panties off, and then, just…threw my legs over his shoulders and went to town!”

“And, judging by the vibes I’m getting off of him, I’m gonna guess that he knew what he was doing down there?” Nat asks.

You nod slowly, your mind getting wrapped up in the memory again. “Mmmhmm….you know how I said he knew what to do with his tongue when we were kissing? Well, when he eats pussy, it’s like…he knows what to do with his tongue, and his lips, and his teeth, and his fingers and  _oh my god—_ okay, I need to stop before I get to worked up,” you say, breaking off with a faint chuckle. Nat laughs too, petting your shoulder understandingly.

A few shaky breaths help to calm your racing heart, and a sip of water helps to quell your jittery excitement. You’re gonna need a good session with your vibrator, after this. “Umm, well, yeah. He was really good. Made me come  _twice_ before getting his cock inside me.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Nat breathes, “Talk about eating your woman right!”

“Yeah,” you murmur absentmindedly as you brain descends into lewd thoughts revolving around James’ head between your legs. Goodness, that man knew how to eat pussy. Something about him turned you into a sex fiend, your hands fisting into his brown locks and your hips grinding shamelessly against his clever mouth as he laved his tongue over your glistening folds. He’d broken you open with expert precision, reducing you to a sobbing, whimpering mess in record time. James had made love to your dripping core with his tongue and fingers, bringing you to not one, but  _two_  world-shattering orgasms that had you clutching at the sheets to ground yourself against the onslaught of pleasure he wreaked upon you.

“Um,” you mutter, rubbing your temples to get your head back in the game. “Yeah, and then…well, he slipped a condom on and we fucked. And yes, before you ask, James was a fucking—,” you break off, waving your hands around vigorously as you search for the right word. “Like, he’s basically a goddamn sex machine, and just…I don’t have words. You needed to be there to know what I’m on about.”

Natasha purses her lips and tilts her head to the side, musing over your words. She’s silent for an uncomfortably long time, but before you can open your mouth to ask her what’s wrong, she beats you to the punch and asks, “Did you guys go a few rounds?”

You bite your bottom lip. “I—um. Yeah. Twice. And I lost track of how many times he made me come after the fourth one,” you admit.

She chuckles, leaning back and resting her elbows on the arm of the sofa behind her. “Damn, babe, you sure you didn’t…I dunno, had a drink that was spiked with something and dreamt all this up?” she asks teasingly, “Because it sure does sound too good to be true.”

“No, you fucktard,” you retort, “Because after he made me come for the millionth time in a row, he cleaned me up and dressed me in his t-shirt as I was falling asleep in his bed. The same bed that I woke up in this morning, I might add.”

“So you just snuck out?”

“Yeah, he was still asleep, so I put on my clothes, left a little thank-you note and legged it the fuck outta there,” you say.

“Did you leave him your number, at least?” she asks.

“Uhhh…no?”

Nat facepalms. “Why? Are you seriously telling me you don’t want to hook up with him again?”

You shrug indifferently. “No, of course I want to. I just…y’know, he’s a rich businessman, or something and I’m just a broke intern. We come from completely different worlds…it was—it was just a one-night thing,” you sigh dejectedly.

It’s a one-night thing that you sorely wish could be something more. James truly  _was_  a nice guy, one that you’d like to get to know on a non-sexual level.

Sensing your mood, Nat scoots forward and wraps her arms around your shoulders, pillowing her cheek on your collarbone. You hum in thanks, resting your chin on top of her head and smoothing your hand down her back. Displays of affection like this from Natasha are true once-in-a-blue-moon occurrences; the fact that one is happening right now must mean something significant.

“Well, I’m just proud that you had a good time, honey,” she says quietly, voice slightly muffled by your shirt. “I  _do_ wish you’d left him your number, but…nothing we can do to change it.”

The momentary peace is broken by your stomach growling loudly. The room is silent for half a second, before Nat breaks out into hysterics, collapsing back against the sofa in a fit of helpless giggles. By default, she sets you off too.

“I’m sorry, okay?” you chortle, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes. Nat shakes her head and pokes the side of your ribs with her toe, clearly unable to form coherent sentences at this point.

“Ugh, fuck, it’s been a crazy 12 hours,” you sigh. “And as nice as your eggs were, I really did work up an appetite last night,” you admit.

That nearly sets her off again, but Nat manages to hold it together to wheeze out a quick, “Okay, okay, brunch, then,” before dissolving into another laughing fit.

—————————————

After putting on a bit of makeup to make yourself look a tad more presentable, you and Natasha head out to your favourite brunch spot; a cute little cafe about twenty minutes away from your house.

The waffles there are  _to die for_.

When you get there, the waiter ushers you to a table in the corner, next to the window, before taking your orders — waffles with berries and chocolate for you, poached eggs on toast for her. After he’s cleared away the menus, you sit back and cast a quick glance over the other cafe-goers, as Nat pulls out her phone to fire off a few emails.

One particular cafe-goer has your heart stopping short.

“Oh crap,” you curse, quickly averting your eyes and turning your head to look out the window. You shield the side of your face with a strategically-placed hand.

Nat lifts her eyes from her phone and gives you a puzzled look. “What?”

“It’s him,” you hiss, subtly jerking your head to the right.

She arches an eyebrow in a silent question.

“James,” you whisper.

Natasha puts her phone down on the table and leans forward, folding her fingers together and resting her chin on top of them. “You sure?”

You chance a sideways look in James’ direction to double-check. He’s on the opposite side of the cafe, two rows back, on a table next to the wall. He has a baseball cap pulled low over his dark hair, headphones in his ears and sunglasses tucked into his maroon v-neck. If that drop-dead gorgeous side-profile wasn’t enough to give him away, the leather jacket definitely did the trick. James has a pen in his hand and is frowning at the newspaper on the table, probably doing a crossword, or something. A half-eaten pastry and cup of coffee sit in front of him.

“Yeah,” you tell Nat, being careful to keep your voice down. “He’s behind you, wearing a leather jacket.”

Nat, ever the queen of subtlety, twists around, making it look as if she’s trying to signal the attention of a waiter, when in reality, she’s doing a casual scan across the room. When she turns back to you, a mildly bewildered expression is on her face.

“Y/N,” she stage-whispers.

“What?”

“Do you know who he is?” she asks.

Your brows knit together in confusion as your mouth pulls into a frown. “Um…my one night stand? James?”

“Yeah. James  _Buchanan Barnes_ , aka world-famous actor who portrayed the Winter Soldier in, oh, surprise, surprise,  _The Winter Soldier_ ,” Nat hisses.

Your jaw falls open in shock. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” she echoes, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest.

You sneak another surreptitious glance towards James, studiously analysing his profile. Huh.  _Now_ you realise why his voice had sounded so familiar — you’ve watched and cried over that film oh, maybe fifty times. In the last year.

“He looks so different without the hair and the beefed-up muscles,” you mutter, as you take a sip of your coffee.

“Yeah, but can we backtrack to the fact that you fucked the motherfucking  _Winter Soldier_ without realising it?” Nat lets out a distinctly loud snort as she sips her orange juice. “I’m never gonna let you live this one down.”

You chew on your bottom lip, idly fiddling with your napkin before blurting out, “Do you think he needs a sugar baby?”

**Author's Note:**

> Share the love on [tumblr!](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/170228481170/every-dirty-detail/)


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